No sleep
by James Harper
Summary: Journal Entry on one of Logan's sleepless nights where dreams of Weapon X keep him up awake.


I don't sleep anymore. I haven't for a while. It's been months, now, since the last time I slept.

I can't sleep. Sleep will bring dreams, and what dreams bring, I can't bear to watch anymore.

It always starts hazy. I'm in a bar, drinking, but unable to get drunk, like always. The rain turned to snow in the last few days, but I don't remember the change. The men in the long coats and dark hats sit at the far table, drinks untouched, trying to look like they're not watching me. I finally get tired of the game and get up to leave. As I get into my car, I feel the prick of the dart, and everything goes dark.

The next time I wake up, I'm in a cell. Only thing is, this cell isn't one of stone, or brick, or with iron bars. Nope. This one's a prison of my own body. I can see, hear, smell, feel...but I can't move. And then the parade of faces starts. Oh, those terrible faces.

First, the Dark Fairy. Her short dark hair is just a few shades lighter than her haunted onyx eyes. Her body is scarred, and I can tell that some of it is self inflicted. Her smoky black wings dance in and out of existence, keeping her hovering just apart from the others. When she reads from her magical scroll, she takes over my mind, and controls my very thoughts, though I'm still underneath, struggling to get out.

Then, The Alchemist. He's a grinning, squinting little imp, pouring this and that into my body, hardening my insides until I can barely move. He laughs like a hyena as the liquid fire he forces into my bones burns me from the inside out.

Next, the Fool. He dances around the ones with the true power, thinking he's king. He starts the process that will proceed over the next months, and smiles with satisfaction at his success, watching me grow and become stronger. Only too late does he realize his true part in the play, and he lies broken on the floor, ashamed of his folly.

Then comes the Butcher. His eyes are hidden behind mirrored round lenses, that shine bright light into my eyes, searching, searching, looking for something he knows is there, but still can't find. Dressed in a bloody apron, his arms are covered in my blood all the way up to his elbows. He hacks, chops, cuts, scrapes and stabs me for weeks on end.

Then, the Puppetmaster. His shiny bald head and gaunt face give him a hawk like appearance. He's so convinced of his own superiority, that in his rush to make me into just another puppet by pulling the strings of his underlings, he doesn't see the strings attached to his own fingers. Only when his strings are cut is he revealed as what he truly is. A scared, frightened little boy, sobbing behind his mother's legs as the world falls apart around him.

He's the reason I am who I am. What I am. He's the author of their atrocities.

They cause me nothing but pain for hours, then days, then weeks, months, years. My body becomes a pincushion for all the needles they stick into me. Every muscle, every nerve cluster, even the bones. All of them punctured over and over and over.

And then comes the burning. Liquid fire in my veins from the drugs and chemicals they pump into me to knock down my healing factor. The burn of cold air on my raw nerves as they slice me open time and time again. The searingly cold shock of being suspended in the chemical bath of nutrients that's somehow mostly alcohol based, even though it's boiling hot. The red hot metal shoved through flesh, muscle, to bond with bone. The dull flickering heat from the nanomachines they pumped straight into my heart to protect the pores in my bones.

I cry out, over and over and over, for hours at a time, until my voice is completely gone. Even then, my ragged sobs echo loudly in my own ears. Everything echoes loudly in my ears now. My skull is bonded with adamantium, a metallic alloy composed of several resins and the mysterious substance known as vibranium. My bones hum with any impact, and all sound, which was crystal clear before, is now harsh against my sensitive ears.

I smell metal. Burning metal. And the sharp sting of alcohol in my nose, along with blood. But there's something wrong with the blood. It's not blood. Thicker, more concentrated. Slippery, almost oily. It's more like amniotic fluid, but the wrong color. It's greenish with a silvery film in it.

Every once in a while, I get a whiff of my torturers. Just enough to track them down later on...

After the pain, the dreams start. I know. It's funny. Dreams within dreams. More like nightmares inside nightmares.

First, I'm with Langram. Getting ready for Korea. Not the war, mind you. Just one of the covert Ops I pulled there.

Then, I'm back with Fox.

Then it's the lab.

Then I'm in the woods. Hunting. Searching. Killing. Tigers. Bears. Wolves. Wolverines. Myself...

These visions float in and out of my brain like clouds of cigar smoke, rising to hang out near the ceiling, before being sucked out by the vent fans. Faces jump from one vision to the next. I can't tell if I'm jumping time, moving forward and back, or if I'm being controlled, or if I'm actually living these things and having multiply psychotic episodes. Past history would argue for the latter.

And after what seems like an eternity of my brain torturing me with things I'd honestly rather not think about, I wake up, here at the school. Safe and sound. Friends and family around. I reach out in the darkness, hoping to find something solid to hold onto.

I rarely find it. Sometimes, it's a warm beer on the nightstand. Other times, pills to knock me out again. Very occasionally it's Jubes or 'Ro or Rogue. I think I like those nights the best. Knowing that there's someone here who accepts me for what I am, who's willing to lay down and sleep next to me, without being afraid I'm gonna wake up in a rage and do what it is I do best...well, Bub, it doesn't get much better than that, and I'll take that for my solid thing any night.


End file.
